The Little Girl
by PurelyLilly4
Summary: I hate you, Brooke, you know that?" Her mother asked her. Brooke nodded her head, "I know." Sometimes Brooke dreamed of being a beautiful celebrity, but then her father strikes her in the stomach, and her dreams are shattered. One Shot


Disclaimer- I own nothing

**Disclaimer- I own nothing**

**A/N-Hey, this is my 2****nd**** one-shot. I really enjoyed writing the last one, and here is this one. I know it is not a happy subject, and neither was the last one, but I hope you give it a chance. My heart goes out to anyone who has ever experienced abuse and I hope if you read this, you count yourself lucky if you are someone who has never encountered anything of this sort. This song is ****The Little Girl**** by John Michael Montgomery. If you listen to the song before reading, or while, I feel it really adds to the story. **

**-Lilly**

_Her parents never took the young girl to church_

_Never spoke of His name_

_Never read her His word_

_Two non-believers walking lost in this world_

_Took their baby with them_

_What a sad little girl_

The young girl stood in front of the small, full length mirror along the wall, a crack running down the center, separating her reflection into two. Her brunette hair hung down over her shoulders as she fastened the white bow on top of her head, clipping it into place. She was only six, but she was as self-sufficient as a grown woman. Although, she had learned, that just because you were grown, didn't mean you could take care of yourself.

She thought she was beautiful, although, her parents had never told her that. She believed she could do anything, but her parents told her otherwise. She looked down at her feet, dirt covering the soles. Her right foot was turned inward, lightly rubbing her ankle of the opposite foot. It throbbed, but it was her fault. Indirectly, she had caused that pain. She told people she tripped, and that is why it was swollen, but that was only a lie. The young brunette took hold of a brush, the bristles missing from the outskirts. She ran it through her hair, imagining she was a beautiful celebrity. She twirled in the dress, a dress that hung on her slim body. Suddenly, the pain in her foot and all over her body seemed to go away. She closed her eyes, dreaming that she stood in front of cameras, being whisked away to another fashion event, designing gorgeous gowns.

Then, she heard the slam of the door below, and her dream shattered, just like the mirror had the night before. Her eyes opened and a tear ran along her nose, leaving a trail in its wake. She turned to leave the barren room, a catawampus line down her back, red and unmistakable. It matched the crack in the glass of the mirror.

_'It will be over soon.' _That is what Brooke told herself every time it happened. _'It will be better than last time.' _But, her thoughts were always wrong. It always got worse, every time she angered him. Last night had been the worse, but that is what was expected. After all, she should have known he was busy. She shouldn't have asked him to tuck her in. She was just so cold last night and she wanted someone to pull the covers over her and make her feel warm, kinda like how it was when she went to a friend's house.

(Flashback)

_Brooke cowered in the corner of her bedroom, her head buried in her knees, her hands clasping her toes. She trembled, the tears already falling. She tried to think of a happy memory, sometimes they made the pain more bearable, but it had been too long since she had one of those. She knew it was coming and she could do nothing to escape it; it was the worst fear of all. _

_Her bedroom door flung open, revealing her father, angered and unyielding. She could feel him grab her hair, yanking her across the floor. It happened fast, first her face, then her stomach, finally she thought it was over when she felt the shooting pain in her ankle, his leg striking her for the last time. _

_"What the hell is that doing there, huh?" Brooke watched as her father pointed to the mirror in her room. His breath filled with alcohol, his eyes as red as the fire that burned beneath him. _

_Before Brooke was able to answer, he pulled her up from the wooden floor panels, by her hair, positioning her in front of the glass._

_"Ya think you're beautiful?" Brooke could hear the laughs echoing through the room and then she felt it. Her back burned, the glass shattered, and her dad left, muttering something about beauty. The last thing she heard before the pain truly settled in was, "You're not beautiful; you're anything but."_

_She felt the shards of glass in her back. Her father had thrown her, by the hair, into the glass mirror, filling her back with clear glass. It penetrated through her, but instead of lying on the floor, bleeding, she got up. _

_Brooke Davis had to be strong for the family; someone had to be strong mentally. She picked up the remaining glass pieces on the floor and put them in the trash. She stared back into the mirror, thankful that she hadn't ruined it, when she 'fell.' _

_That night, she slept on her stomach, her back sore. But, it wasn't her back that she fell asleep thinking about, but her heart. How much more could she take before she broke?_

_Her daddy drank all day and mommy did drugs_

_Never wanted to play_

_Or give kisses and hugs_

_She'd watch the TV and sit there on the couch_

_While her mom fell asleep_

_And her daddy went out_

Brooke's feet pattered lightly along the stairs that led downstairs. Her rhythm slowed down, her breathing decreased so it above only a breath, as she landed on the last step. She turned the corner, squeezing her eyes shut. The bathroom door was open, its hinges creaking, the bathroom faucet dripping with the water that hadn't been shut off.

She looked her mother in the eye, but only for a moment, before it began to settle in. Her mom sat on the edge of the tub, a syringe in one hand, some sort of compressor on her shoulder, all of it connected by a tube.

_'It is just so she gets happy.'_ That is what the little girl told herself, as she closed the door, not able to watch her mom, not anymore.

She wandered down the hallway, wishing she had someone to play with, but thankful she had no siblings. Even if she had a brother or sister, she knew she would take the pain for them. It was worse to watch others in pain, than to be in pain yourself, or at least that is how she felt.

The couch began to sag, the smoke coming from the threads, a beer bottle on the end table. She grabbed the bottle, and the cans that littered the floor, collecting them into a plastic bag. She settled on the couch, wrapping herself in a quilted blanket. One that she hid under the cushions of the couch, deep within, so nobody could find it. It was her baby blanket, made before she ruined her parent's life. She didn't know how, but somehow she ruined everything they were, and everything they wanted to be.

The blanket was soft underneath her chin as she cuddled deep into it. Her daddy was out, some bar calling his name, and her mom was in the bathroom, locked away in her 'happiness.' The television lightly spoke to her, a channel of cartoons illuminating her face. She knew her dad would trash the blanket, so, that is why she hid it, a different place every week.

Brooke saw the young boy running to her house, waving his hand for her to come out and play. She nodded her head as she flicked the television off, checking to see if her mom was done. The door creaked open, her mom lying on the floor. She bent over, leaning her ear against her heart, her tiny fingers along her wrist. She always checked to see if her mom was breathing. She was. Finally, she had passed out. Brooke knew her dad was gone. It was safe to leave the house.

She pushed the screen door open and felt her feet against the cold brick. Her blanket trailed behind her, holding it close to her side as she ran over to the blonde boy.

"Hi Luke," Brooke smiled, her little dimples shining through.

"Hey Brooke," Lucas smiled, his hair ruffled and his jeans wet with grass stains.

"Where's Nathan?" Brooke asked, looking all over for the brunette.

"Playing basketball with my dad," Lucas responded and Brooke nodded her head sadly.

"Can you keep this at your house for a little?" Brooke asked, handing him her blanket, sad to part with it.

"Why, Brooke?" Lucas asked, taking the blanket and throwing it over his shoulder.

"I don't want him to find it," she said in a small voice, her eyes glistening with a tear, but she sniffed it back, hiccupping in the process.

"He did it again last night, didn't he?" Lucas asked.

"It wasn't bad though," Brooke confirmed, but Lucas knew otherwise. He was six, but he knew his best friend. He had known Brooke most of his life, his parents were friends with hers. Such good friends, that, they didn't believe that Mr. and Mrs. Davis would ever do that to their child, even after Lucas had told them.

Brooke had been mad at Lucas after that. He wasn't supposed to tell anybody about her parents. They could do whatever they wanted to her, but she loved them, and she had to protect them. If she didn't protect them, who would?

"Brooke, your back," Lucas said incredulously as he traced the line with his little finger.

"He didn't mean to, Luke. I made him mad," Brooke contested.

"I won't let him do this anymore!" Lucas proclaimed.

"Don't do anything, Luke. Just, sit with me," Brooke said softly as she sat on the doorstep, Lucas following close behind.

"You know I love you, Brooke," Lucas confirmed as she placed his arm over her shoulder, and she nodded her head.

They were six years old, maybe not in love in the sense of how people three times their age were in love, but they had their own love. It was Lucas that would hold Brooke when she cried because it all got to tough. It was him that would wake up early in the morning after hearing the screams next door; last the night before, just to make sure Brooke was ok. Lucas was the one that brought her food from his house because she was sent to her room without any.

Brooke trusted Lucas. She trusted him to comfort her, be there for her, and most of all, to keep her secret. She really did love her parents, but she wished they loved her too.

"I know, Lucas. You are my best friend, did you know that?" Brooke asked, but she knew he knew.

"Yeah, I know." Lucas smiled, as he held on tighter to her. It wasn't until she was with him would she cry. Brooke had once told him that she cried in his arms because then when she stopped crying, she would have someone to make her laugh and tell her everything, one day, would be okay.

_And the drinking and the fighting_

_just got worse every night_

_Behind their couch she'd be hiding_

_Oh what a sad little life_

_And like it always does, the bad just got worse_

_With every slap and every curse_

_Until her daddy in a drunk rage one night_

_Used a gun on her mom and then took his life_

Brooke wondered how other girls her age woke up in the morning. Did their parents wake them up; tickling their feet until their body jolted from the bed, tears of joy springing from their eyes having have laughed so hard. Did the sun streaming in the window open their eyes, one eyelash at a time?

This morning, she was woken up by yells reverberating against the walls, from the basement to her room. She brought her legs up to her chest, closing her ears as the words only got cruder. She heard her mom scream as a thud sounded through the house.

Brooke ran down the stairs, not even thinking about what she was putting herself into as she reached her parents. She stayed behind the couch, hoping they didn't notice her. Of course, they didn't. She was used to not being noticed. Actually, Brooke would rather not be noticed during times like these.

"Daddy stop!" Brooke shrieked, tears springing from her own eyes, but these were not tears from laughter and love.

"What the hell are you doing? Huh? Answer me," her father yelled, moving away from her mom and to her.

"Stop hurting mommy. Hurt me instead," Brooke yelled, ready to take whatever she had coming.

"Hurt you? Oh, I'll give you a beating if that's what you want. You no-good-for nothing- little brat."

Brooke cringed as she felt the blow coming, knocking her over. She scrambled behind the couch, and for the first time, her dad didn't come after her. He just left, leaving the two females sprawled across the floor.

"I hate you, you know that, Brooke. I don't need you sticking up for me. Sometimes I wish you would just keep your moth shut and learn your place in this family. It was your fault, your daddy is always mad at you. I really hate you."

Brooke nodded her head, "I know mama," she whispered. She waited, for the worse. It wasn't until her mom had stood up, had she fallen backwards once again. Only this time, she didn't get up; she couldn't get up.

Her father stood with his gun in the hand, a beer in the other. Brooke pressed herself along the couch, knowing she was next. She didn't want to die. She couldn't stop the tears from coming, as she plugged her ears from the sounds of the shots.

Soon, there was no more, sound. She heard the pistol fall on the ground, a thud following it close behind.

She crawled from her hiding place, looking at the scene.

Some kids go to bed with their parents tucking them in. Some kids go to bed with a bedtime story. Some kids go to bed with a kiss and a hug. Brooke Davis went to bed that night with both parents gone.

No matter how much they hurt her, she knew it was because she deserved it. That is one way where Luke was wrong. It really was her fault. Had she not angered them, they would be happy. Had she not yelled at her daddy to stop hitting her mom, they would be alive. She had killed her parents. She went to bed with that in mind.

_And some people from the city took the girl far away_

_To a new mom and a new dad_

_kisses and hugs everyday_

_Her first day of Sunday school the teacher walked in_

_And a small little girl_

_Stared at a picture of Him_

She had been woken up with a hug and a kiss, one from each of the new faces. She went to bed that night on a full stomach, having been read a story moments before her eyes fluttered closed.

Her bruises were fading away, and the mark on her back was only a scar. Her old life was just a memory. She never feared waking up in this home. She didn't have to make her own breakfast or check daily to make sure her mom was still breathing. She was told every morning she was loved and that she was beautiful. Finally, she was beginning to believe it all.

Brooke stood in front of the large, full-length mirror, no cracks, or shards of class anywhere to be seen. She wore a light pink dress, a ribbon tying her hair back. She didn't have to imagine being as beautiful as a celebrity this morning, because, she felt like one. She didn't have to imagine anymore. But she did, simply, because it was fun.

Her new mom and new daddy had dropped her off in the classroom at the church. Her first time in a church and she thought it was beautiful.

She sat in the desk, next to Lucas, a boy she hadn't seen since she was brought to her new house. He smiled at her, a smile that was larger than all of the other ones she had ever seen. He smiled, because he knew she was safe.

_She said I know that man up there on that cross_

_I don't know His name_

_But I know He got off_

_Cause He was there in my old house_

_and held me close to His side_

_As I hid there behind our couch_

_The night that my parents died_

Brooke glanced at all of the pictures around the classroom and smiled. She had always felt someone protecting her when her parents fought. She thought she had seen someone that night when the shot rang clear through her house. She thought there was a reason she was there, and her parents were elsewhere. Finally, she had name to that face as she listened intently to class, learning about scriptures and history. She listened to stories and did a fun activity, coloring and gluing.

Brooke looked over at Lucas who was coloring outside the lines in his picture of the man on the cross.

"Thank you Lucas," Brooke said quietly.

"For what Brooke? Did you steal my crayon?" Lucas asked, checking to make sure he had all the colors he needed.

"Yeah," Brooke smiled, handing him the red crayon. "I don't need this color anymore."

"Why not, Brooke? You have to color the blood," the little boy behind Brooke butted in.

Brooke smiled and looked over at Lucas once again.

"Tim, Brooke doesn't need that color anymore. Not ever again," Lucas smiled.

Finally, Brooke would wake up without red coloring her skin, or purple tracing the corner of her eyes. She would wake up like a kid should wake up.

"Hey Brooke, here is your blanket," Lucas smiled, taking the quilted blanket from his backpack.

"You can keep it," Brooke smiled.

"Why?" Lucas asked, thinking she would want it back.

"Because now I have a new one, and it's pink," Brooke giggled.

"How about I give it to you and you put it under your bed, just in case," Lucas offered.

"Fine," Brooke replied stubbornly. "But, I don't need it."

"Ok, Brooke," Lucas smiled, knowing his friend better than she knew herself.

Later that night, before Brooke went to bed, she asked for a glass of water. She liked not having to get up and get her own glass. It was simple, but it was also new for her. As her parents walked out the door, closing it so it remained slightly ajar, Brooke leaned over her bed. She poked her head under her dust ruffle and scooped the quilted blanket out from underneath, throwing it on top of her. Lucas was right. He always was.

**A/N- I hope you enjoyed this story. I had a tough time with the ending. The song had religious connotation, and of course I know not everyone is the same religion on this site, so I tried to stick with the song, without writing a story based on just religion. I hope everything makes sense! **


End file.
